


A Calculated Risk

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mathematicians, Pining, Protective Crowley, Secret Relationship, Snake Anatomy, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snektember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale catches a wily serpent, then finds himself in need of assistance.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 563
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	A Calculated Risk

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Chamyl told me that I was not to write sexy maths. There must be no sexy maths, or snake maths, or snakes doing sexy maths. But then I accidentally wrote exactly that, oh no! Chamyl was kind enough to look it over for mistakes anyway. Please pay no attention to the actual maths in this. If GO can have fun with historical accuracy then so can I. 
> 
> Also for the Snektember prompt 'snake attributes.'

Aziraphale is very lucky to have been invited to the symposium. Oh, he could have miracled his way in, but there's something to be said for being invited on your own merits.

The philosophy discussions are going to be fascinating, and the theories on biological processes in nature will be obviously wrong but also fascinating. Oh, and he's rather looking forward to the talk on astronomy. It's always so interesting to discover how humans think about things, which pieces of evidence they'll choose to construct an entire worldview around. The conversations today will no doubt predict the contents of scrolls for years to come. Some of which he's in no doubt will be quite collectible once proven to be terribly wrong.

It's a very select gathering, so Aziraphale is impossibly pleased to count himself a member of the audience. He's more than prepared to engage in a bit of hot debate and enthusiastic arguing with some of the most influential - if not always the brightest - minds, for miles around. Even if he will have to carefully navigate around what he knows to be true and what the people here believe to be true, or theorise to be true. The gap between them both is rather extreme, but humanity is making progress - and he doubts they'd be willing to believe the truth about the universe, no matter how carefully he explains it.

Wine is poured and seats are taken, introductions are made, and several important figures take the time to greet Aziraphale and ask if he's up for a bit of a mental workout. He makes a gesture of enthusiasm with his fist and agrees, since he's been looking forward to this for weeks. He settles himself on a couch near the boards, that will soon no doubt be filled with diagrams, fiendish puzzles and snippets of dialogue that will be quoted for years to come.

Aziraphale's certain that it will be a fantastic few days -

Until he catches a very familiar flash of black and red scales, slithering slowly through the bunches of grapes and empty cups on the refreshment table. He quickly rises and moves as casually as he can manage towards it, reaching over a bread basket to snatch up a long, thin tail. He drags the stowaway off the table, stuffing it up his sleeve before any of his fellows can register the serpentine interruption. There's a furious and affronted hissing from inside his garment. Which he covers with a few quick stretches and an excited gesture that he hopes looks eager to begin, while also feeling guilty at the obvious knock of a small flat head against his elbow.

Crowley's tongue lashes furiously over his arm while he re-finds his seat and re-fills his cup.

"This is supposed to be a closed discussion," Aziraphale complains into his wine, but mostly towards his bulging sleeve. "How did you get in here, you villain?"

"Snuck in with the figs," Crowley says, the hissed explanation muffled and unhappy.

"Of course you did." _Of course he did_. Aziraphale has been putting the work in for years to be here, of course Crowley can just fall asleep in a basket and accomplish the same.

"I've come to steal information, obviously." Crowley wriggles, the pattern of his scales briefly visible through the material when he strains. "Why should all this interesting stuff stay in a room full of dull, bearded old men?"

Whether Aziraphale agrees or not, this is clearly demonic interference and he's duty bound to thwart it.

"Well, I've been looking forward to these talks, and I'll not have you ruin them with your wiles, you can stay in there until the end." There's a disgruntled squirming in answer, until Aziraphale pinches the sleeve shut. Which leads to a moment of annoyed stretching and jabbing at his forearm, before Crowley realises he can't get out, he promptly decides to wrap himself around Aziraphale's arm and sulk.

There's very little movement from him for the long discussion about the natural world, during which a tall fellow with a cough attempts to explain the origin of birds - quite wrongly. Aziraphale assumes Crowley's fallen asleep, but the philosophy discussion afterwards provokes several sharp squeezes and a period of disgusted hissing that Aziraphale has to cover with a cough. So the demon is, at the very least, selectively listening.

The first half a dozen talks have been riveting, and he thinks now would be a good time to step out to catch a bite to eat. It's late enough for dinner and the mathematicians are getting restless in a way that suggests it's their turn next. Mathematics has never been one of Aziraphale's interests. He has a rather extensive knowledge of how the universe works, obviously. But the rules were so layered and so complex that it was difficult to remember which ones were calculable in the material world and which were 9th and 12th dimensional expressions of higher matter and quantum positioning.

He pats his knees and makes to rise -

"Ah, wonderful, Azeus has volunteered to assist us in solving the problem."

"I'm sorry, what?" Aziraphale realises with horror that the whole room is looking at him - worse there are three mathematicians eyeing him hopefully, chalk held up as if waiting for him to provide something in the way of information. Or possibly enlightenment.

He hadn't heard the call for answers before he made to rise.

"The necessary formula." The mathematician gestures at the complex series of shapes he's drawn to illustrate what looks like a tortoise being pursued by men with bows.

Aziraphale has no idea what's going on, and he can feel the stares of almost two hundred men of learning, men he's had to work hard to gain the respect of, so he can move more freely among them. Miracling over a hundred people would probably be poor form, and would definitely show up somewhere upstairs and be stamped 'unnecessary use of miracles.' Gabriel would be unbearable, there would be consequences. He couldn't possibly.

He registers a strange prodding at his wrist and looks down

Crowley has slithered free of the end of his sleeve, curling round the skin of his wrist and squeezing to get his attention. While his seated companions look at the board, and at Aziraphale's unhelpful face, Crowley's tail slithers quickly into Aziraphale's cup of wine and then darts back into his sleeve only to slide pointedly across his forearm, painting what Aziraphale realises are numbers in tickling passes through the hair there. Crowley is effectively giving him the answer. He's so surprised for a moment that a splash of wine hits the floor at his feet.

"Of course, it's nine-hundred and forty-five over seven," he says, with what he hopes feels like confidence and not quiet panic. 

The two bearded men - whose names he suddenly finds he cannot remember - nod and make approving noises, returning to the board to add more complicated marks in chalk, and Aziraphale tries desperately to mask his sigh of relief in another drink of wine. Crowley's tail strokes gently on his arm, which he realises he's still holding tensed in panic.

"Thank you, Crowley," he mutters. Though the serpent immediately makes a show of twining round his elbow afterwards and sinking back into a sulk.

He's leaning back, happy to have escaped what would have been a terribly awkward and embarrassing display of ignorance, most of which he'd have to feign, lest he accidentally offer too much in the way of ethereal knowledge.

" - and your opinion on that?" The most bearded of the mathematicians is obviously posing the question to him.

Aziraphale spills half his wine, toga falling sideways to land on the seat. Crowley slithers higher up his arm and out of view.

Oh, good Heavens, again?

"My opinion on that -" Aziraphale pretends to think about it for a minute, hoping desperately that Crowley will come to his rescue once again. Though his wine is empty and Crowley has had to slither all the way to his shoulder to avoid being spotted.

"Perhaps you'd like to come and write the equation in a way that would be easy to understand?"

No.

No, Aziraphale most certainly would not like that. But he smiles nervously and stands, makes his way to the board, sandals miserably loud on the marble floor. There are so many eyes watching him approach the front of the auditorium. 

The boards there are full of calculations which he instinctively knows are incorrect, but he suspects they are incorrect in the right way considering current knowledge. Crowley slithers quickly up over his shoulder, the long length of him catching at Aziraphale's chest before his small, serpentine head has a quick peek out of the collar of his tunic.

"Ah, they're trying to calculate the laws of motion in relation to external forces, using weight and velocity. Trying to nail down perpetual motion I'd bet."

"I don't know how to do this in only three dimensions," Aziraphale mutters under his breath. "Do I take dimensional shearing into account? What about observational chaos? Or mirrored frequency?"

Crowley slides up the side of his neck where no one can see him, his long tongue tickling Aziraphale's ear.

"No, no, and no, stick with the physical realm but discount anything humans can't see except the first type of gravity - though don't mention it. I don't think they know about it yet." There's an annoyed hiss and a slow squirm. "Humans are always bloody discovering things and undiscovering them because they're not _convenient_. I'd like to -" Crowley abruptly darts back into Aziraphale's tunic when the small herd of mathematicians drift in close.

"Are you having trouble, Azeus?"

"No, no, everything's positively grapes in the morning. Just gathering my thoughts." The chalk in his hand is going to break if he's not careful.

"Crowley," he breathes very quietly. "I would very much appreciate some assistance."

The rasp of scales across his collar bone has him flinching a little, but he can feel the slow, careful movements of a tail on the sensitive skin there, as it lays numbers and mathematical symbols on the softness of his skin.

He copies them, reciting them slowly as if he knows what he's doing, listening to the hum of interest in the background.

There's a division sign painted on the curve of his pectoral muscle, the number sixty-six in the valley of his soft chest. Separations drawn onto one shoulder and then a pause so Crowley can re-grip around his back and add 'forty-five' and x and several symbols that Aziraphale suspects are not Greek or Roman in origin but pull surprised muttering out of the figures behind him, followed by reluctant agreement. He copies what Crowley draws on his skin, arm trembling a fraction as scales sweep back and forth, the dry tickling rasp of a tongue following the slightly wider slither of Crowley's head.

"Then this, of course."

He is so very grateful for the help. So very -

The wide, slippery bulk of Crowley's body slides smoothly around him, dragging over both nipples at once.

" _Oh Heavens_ \- right, let me see, hmm?"

Crowley slips under his arm and back over his shoulder, so he can anchor himself, squeezing as he goes in a way that Aziraphale is in terrible danger of becoming distracted by. A tongue flutters through the hair on his chest, as he winds and stretches, his serpentine body now warm and smooth wherever it touches. Aziraphale's markings are developing a slant that feels incriminating, a wavering swiftness as he tries to follow the thoughts and the movements while discounting the sensations.

There's something very much like an embrace in the way Crowley moves around him, leaves reassuring slashes and curves across his skin. There's a four-hundred and twelve on his belly, another x just above his underwear that has him coughing a startled noise and dragging chalk sharply down the board. Then a seven just above his hip, followed by a fluttering of tongue that has him twitching in terribly unhelpful ways. Another x and a series of lines that go lower and lower, dip into the hair at his groin as Crowley gently forms a figure eight that strokes briefly over the root of the cock that he was wearing mostly as an afterthought, and leaves his breath more than a little shaky. Then Crowley goes still, lays his head over the tellingly fast beat of Aziraphale's heart.

He finds that he's panting when he lowers the chalk, cheeks warm in a way that he hopes is blamed entirely on the mental workout and the judging crowd.

"Ah, there you go." Aziraphale re-finds his seat while they consider his equations.

He can't possibly leave right afterwards, not while they're still discussing his 'excellent attempt' with some 'interesting deviations that show promise.' Crowley hisses annoyance beneath the neck of his tunic.

"Didn't take it into account," he grumbles through the thick material. "Forgot about it entirely, stupid, sorry angel."

Aziraphale, who doesn't feel bad at all about the mistake, as he absolutely doesn't want to write anything else on the board, makes a soothing noise and drops a few grapes inside his clothes. Which Crowley slithers after and swallows whole.

He relaxes as the talk drones on, after that lucky escape. Of all the things to be forced to demonstrate knowledge on, it had to be the one he hadn't made a point of following. Something he couldn't even offer opinions on, and he'd made so many mental notes. He thinks he deserves a special dinner, all things considered, perhaps a few stuffed quails with some smoked ham and a -

"What do you think, Azeus?"

"What? No - I mean yes - sorry, what was the question?"

Crowley's body jerks out of its doze and slithers quickly around him to get a grip, tail unwinding in one tickling slide.

"OH -" Aziraphale pretends his startled exclamation was in reference to the grapes, and stuffs a few in his mouth as a distraction.

"Your thoughts on the possibility that prime numbers continue infinitely?" The mathematician - whose name he'd discovered is Pinnaeus - asks.

"Prime numbers," Aziraphale considers, to buy himself some time. Because they depend entirely on which dimension you view them from, and whether you're currently residing in linear time. Crowley's tail slithers around him, then taps three times against the surprised peak of his nipple, leaving him choking on a grape and jolting in his seat.

"AH - agree, I agree, definitely agree, no end to them."

After that Aziraphale is, thankfully, allowed to leave.

-

When Aziraphale makes it back to his room after dinner he finds Crowley already there, human-shaped and smirking unbearably, a sprawl of long limbs on his bed. He's wearing the shortest outfit Aziraphale has ever seen, the tops of his thighs indecently on display and pale under hair. The material of his undergarment is visible when he stretches, and dark scales flow in patterns across his feet and calves, showing in shadows along his arms.

Aziraphale suspects he's doing it on purpose.

"Hello, angel."

Aziraphale wheezes out a breath and shoves the door shut behind him.

"I should call you a foul serpent for trying to eavesdrop," he says, though his heart's not in it. Not after Crowley was good enough to rescue him from disgrace and mockery. "But you rather saved my reputation there."

"You should definitely call me something, since I spent the last few hours effectively rubbing my cloaca across a considerable portion of your body. And after you dragged me into your clothes like some dirty little secret." Crowley tuts, though judging by his expression he's not offended at all. He looks amused, the absolute villain. "I think a serpent should get his reward."

"I shouldn't," Aziraphale says firmly, though he suspects there's more than a hint of exactly the opposite to his voice. "It just encourages you to make trouble."

"I do have a fondness for trouble," Crowley agrees, but he pats the bed next to him, and Aziraphale can't deny that the space beside him does look inviting, tempting serpent that he is. He slips his sandals off and settles against the wooden frame with Crowley. Though he's immediately aware that it may have been something of a mistake. The demon's thighs look so very bare this close. Inches away from the curl of his own fingers, which haven't managed to stop fidgeting since he left the auditorium.

"It's been a very trying day," he says faintly. Though there's an air of desperation to it, as if he's protesting something Crowley hasn't even technically offered yet, suggestive poses and revealing tunic aside. Honestly, his so-called adversary is becoming a familiar comfort, a reliable confidant, and on occasion a wonderful distraction and an absolute pleasure - and it frightens him more than a little.

But maybe his posture conveys more of his weariness than he thinks, because Crowley makes soothing noises and plumps the pillow behind him, encourages him to sink into the bed and makes no attempt to lure him into anything carnal.

"I know you were looking forward to the talks. I'm sorry you were forced to pretend you knew what the mathematicians were yammering about."

"I know perfectly well how the universe works," Aziraphale argues, because he's still annoyed about it. "I just haven't been keeping much of an eye on how the humans think it works. Which is a very different matter."

"They do have some funny ideas, don't they?" Crowley agrees. "Do you remember when they thought the world was a series of bowls..."

Aziraphale listens to him talk, occasionally offering his own memories, laughing when Crowley briefly gets his centuries mixed up. After all this time it's easy to talk about their time apart, to catch up on the parts of the world they've visited and the things they've seen. Aziraphale learns that for all his own slow success in the city, Crowley seems to have given several jobs up in disgust, slowly moving further North until he felt the familiar sting of angelic power. Though he phrases it in a joking, fond sort of way, that leaves Aziraphale smiling across the bed at him.

The night draws in, and when Crowley snaps his fingers to light the brazier Aziraphale doesn't object, or mention how late it's getting.

Eventually the demon has nothing more to say, he curls into the back of him, breath flaring hotly through Aziraphale's hair.

"You care too much what people think of you," he says quietly.

"And you spend too much time pretending that you don't care at all," Aziraphale points out.

Crowley makes a noise that seems to be acknowledgement, even if he refuses to turn it into words.

It's nice to lie together, though Aziraphale wouldn't dare if there was anything Heaven might find interesting in the city, and never without giving the rooms a cursory set of wards first. He knows they prickle over Crowley's skin the same way the demon's do to him. Less so than at the beginning though, as if their energies are slowly getting used to each other. Aziraphale isn't sure whether that's a good sign or not.

Crowley slides black-nailed fingers through his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp and the back of his neck, a tickle of sensation that leaves his skin humming pleasantly. Crowley always waits for him, always follows his lead in this. Which is why he can reach back, find the demon's other hand, slowly drag it up under his tunic and then press it to his bare thighs.

It squeezes gently and Crowley whispers his name, kisses the long line of his neck, his fingers slide upwards, cupping the soft weight of his balls and the stiffening length of his cock. The second kiss to his neck is longer and more indulgent than the first, with a hint of teeth. The slow roll of Crowley's hips more questioning.

Aziraphale sighs quietly and pulls material to his waist, leaving himself bare under the demon's hand - and there's a quiet noise of approval and pleasure left against the back of his neck. Crowley spends a moment stroking the plump curve of his behind and the subtle jut of his hip. Before returning to curve protectively around his cock and squeeze gently.

"Feeling a bit snakey," Crowley murmurs, and it sounds a lot like an apology. "After all that slithering over you. Don't think I can concentrate on just one."

"Then don't," Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley's hand slips down, slides teasingly beneath his balls.

"Hmm, there is this perfectly warm space here that I'd like to claim, if you have no objection?"

Oh, the thought of Crowley slipping in between his thighs, all twinned heat and desire, while he squeezes down tight on him. It's enough to push Aziraphale's cock from pleasantly stiff to tightly eager.

"None at all." He ignores how breathy his voice sounds and nudges backwards.

The quiet sound of cloth being discarded behind him shouldn't be so erotic, though the hand that presses in between his legs, massaging oil into his thighs, perineum, and the sensitive low curve of his balls can't be anything else. Aziraphale reaches over his head and tangles their free hands together. He finds Crowley's soft noise of surprised affection to be more arousing than the way two narrow, slippery cockheads prod at his buttocks.

Crowley tucks into him, one leg draping gently over the angel's knee, scales rasping softly when it slides down. The demon's forehead presses to the back of his neck as he gathers both his hemipenes together, slipping them into the space between Aziraphale's thighs and then pushing through with a hiss of satisfaction. The oil leaves the movement slick and easy, the sink of them making a tight little tunnel. Aziraphale can feel the sliding rub below his balls, the separation as they briefly nudge their way free and thrust out from between his legs. 

It's so deliciously lewd, and he can't help a quiet moan of pleasure.

"You always feel so good." There's a kiss to the curve of his ear, the bone of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, until he tips his head with a sigh and lets Crowley kiss him.

It's slow and gentle, the dragging slide Crowley's solid cocks where he's so sensitive leaves Aziraphale floating in a blissful wave of sensation, leaves him imagining so many things. So many possibilities here in this quiet, dark room. More than a few of which leave him moaning into Crowley's mouth. All the things they're not supposed to be. All the things he's been taught about demons turned on their head and made soft and surprising - Aziraphale can't imagine being joined with anyone else.

Oh the thought of it.

Like this.

The way Crowley was made.

"You can put them inside me next time," Aziraphale breathes against his mouth.

Crowley hisses at the suggestion, growls his name, and the next two pushes beneath Aziraphale's balls are quick and eager. The demon's slick hand squeezing tight on Aziraphale's cock - and, oh, he can't help dropping a hand to cover it, urging him to be a little rougher with him.

"Would be a tight fit," Crowley tells him. "Ah - I'd have to finger you for a good long while to open you up enough to take them both." The words are followed by a shaky moan, as if the thought appeals to him immensely, the slick movement of his crushed hemipenes between Aziraphale's thighs a touch faster, Crowley's skinny hips pressing fully against the generous curves of his buttocks. "You'd be ssstretched out so tight, arsehole pulled red around me." The words break on a groan, and Aziraphale squeezes his thighs together more firmly, feeling the way Crowley's rigid lengths have to push hard into the space, to the demon's immediate and obvious delight.

Aziraphale grunts shaky agreement, looks down to watch those tapered red cocks push slick and greedy beneath his drawn-up balls, the heads leaking pale fluid that smears on his skin. He imagines the heat of them both stretching him open, the way Crowley would whisper encouragement against his cheek - _just a little more, angel, you can do it, you can stretch open for them, you greedy thing_ \- as Aziraphale awkwardly took them both to their wide split base. The desperate noises the demon would leave against his skin while Aziraphale made breathless sounds at the burn of it, while he urged Crowley to keep pushing, to bury himself all the way.

"Ah!"

"Are you close, angel?" Crowley has both Aziraphale's hands held tightly and he can do nothing but squirm and press back and shudder out every breath.

"Yes," Aziraphale admits. "Very close."

There's a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Don't wait for me, I want to see it, want to _feel_ it."

It's a request that Aziraphale finds easy enough to grant, moving between the hard pressure sliding through his thighs and the quick pulls on his cock. He chases it with greedy abandon, until he finds his release pulsing out of him, spilling over both their fingers and the blankets of the bed. He's left moaning through the pleasure of it, trembling and clenching around Crowley's hemipenes, the demon's name bitten out as he twists back for a desperate kiss.

Crowley's hand moves to his thigh, pressing down and gripping tight, as he leaves a desperate kiss to the length of Aziraphale's neck. His breath is punching out of him on every quick, sliding push between the angel's thighs, the friction hot and delicious. Aziraphale cups himself, where he's slowly softening, sticky and over-sensitive but still eager to feel Crowley come. There's nothing quite like having the demon's furious affection, being the one to bring him pleasure, the one he _wants_ , the one he - he presses his face to the pillows, refuses to think it.

But Aziraphale can't help remembering the last time they'd let themselves have this. They'd been in a tent in the desert, Crowley had very slowly opened him with oiled fingers until he'd been breathing his name in quiet, pleading tones, hands fisted tight in the floor rugs when the demon finally worked his dick inside him. The gentle pushes had quickly made way for strong fingers curled tight at Aziraphale's hips and then snapping thrusts that had left his whole body shaking.

" _Crowley_."

The hissing is sharp and continuous, the angle briefly awkward, but it falls to pieces almost immediately, turns into a handful of jerky movements. Crowley bites down on a curse, lets it break into a moan, his fingers squeezing tight. There are long pulses of warmth from both hemipenes that Aziraphale feels against his balls and thighs, every slow, trembling thrust slicking Crowley's spend between them and across the bed with his own.

"Aziraphale, fuck."

Crowley does his best to pull them tighter together, head pressing down on the top of Aziraphale's, hips still working in quick twitches to pull the last of it from him. Before his body stills and he kisses the open warmth of Aziraphale's mouth, over and over, while his hand slides indulgently on his wet, sticky thighs.

"You spoil me, angel," he breathes. "Every time. You shouldn't - you shouldn't." Crowley's thumb is still stroking the back of his hand, where they're threaded together in the pillows, and Aziraphale is loath to let him go just yet. "But you always let me make a beautiful mess of you."

The whole room smells like lust, with notes of petrichor and burnt spices, even after Crowley snaps them both clean.

Aziraphale expects to feel guilty for letting himself indulge carnally with a demon yet again. But the familiar heavy pull of it fails to appear - even after Crowley gently rights his clothing and makes a comment on his hair's inability to ever look truly dishevelled. The way he affectionately winds a pale curl around his sharp finger provokes fondness and affection rather than shame.

Eventually Crowley seems to realise that Aziraphale is willing to indulge in this moment a little longer, and the demon slides their feet together, gives a slow, crooked smile.

"Where did you learn their mathematics anyway?" Aziraphale asks curiously, once he's regained his breath.

Crowley huffs a laugh.

"Miracle us up something to drink and I'll tell you."


End file.
